


every tear-soaked whiskey memory

by Butterfly



Series: go on as three [7]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dom/sub Play, Multi, Overstimulation, Polyamory, Praise Kink, Sexual Roleplay, mentions of a threesome fantasy about quentin/julia/james, still somewhere in s2 though edging towards the end of it now timeline-wise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 02:52:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19781758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butterfly/pseuds/Butterfly
Summary: This isn't how Eliot had hoped to return to Earth. Sure, he'd wanted to come back – for a visit, to do some research so that he and Margo could set up more fun games for Quentin, maybe pick up some quality alcohol instead of the horrible-tasting shit Fillory had – butbanishmenthadn't been part of his plans.Still, Eliot's life has been a study in making the best of things, and he'll make the best of this, too.At least he isn't alone. He has his Bambi and he has his Q.





	every tear-soaked whiskey memory

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Blown Away" by Carrie Underwood.
> 
> Content Warnings: mid-scene panic attack (details of where it starts and ends in the end notes); conversations about mental health; brief mention of the Mike situation in S1. Margo and Eliot discuss a past scene they did together that ended up with someone getting accidentally injured.

This isn't how Eliot had hoped to return to Earth. Sure, he'd wanted to come back – for a visit, to do some research so that he and Margo could set up more fun games for Quentin, maybe pick up some quality alcohol instead of the horrible-tasting shit Fillory had – but _banishment_ hadn't been part of his plans.

Still, Eliot's life has been a study in making the best of things, and he'll make the best of this, too.

At least he isn't alone. He has his Bambi and he has his Q.

“You think Alice and Fen will be able to hold Fillory together while we're gone?” he asks Margo. He's torn on whether or not he's happy that Alice didn't get the boot too. It feels a little unfair that Ember picked on them and left Alice alone, especially since they have no clue why, but at least Fillory isn't left with a complete power vacuum.

“Queen Pragmatic and her consort, our Lady of the Knife?” Margo shrugs. “We can only hope.”

“More relevant at the moment – is my room still intact?”

“Margo and I checked last time we were here,” Quentin volunteers. “Reminded everyone you're technically still a student even if you can't actually be present. Todd promised to guard it with his life.”

“Oh, well, if _Todd_ is on the job.” Eliot stares at the front door of the Cottage. Sighs. “I suppose there's only one way to find out whether or not he screwed it up.”

Todd, it turns out, did not screw it up.

Eliot's room is exactly as he left it. Including the bed not being made.

“Ugh.” Eliot flops backwards onto the messy sheets. “Banished. My life as a monarch temporarily suspended by the gods themselves. I was- I don't think I was a bad High King, you know. We signed that peace treaty with Loria, we taught the people the joys of crop rotation, and I almost invented a tolerable champagne. I think I was doing all right.”

“We were great,” Margo says, firmly, lying down next to him. “Fillory just couldn't appreciate the glorious gift that was us.”

Eliot pushes himself up on his elbows. Quentin is hovering by the doorway, blinking into the room like his brain is overloading. “Come. Lie down. Wallow with us in shared misery, fellow deposed ruler of ungrateful Fillory.”

“I think I know a way to cheer you up,” Quentin says, with a burst of words and an extravagant set of hand gestures that almost seem to propel him into the room by themselves. “You- um. I want to- I have an idea for a- a scene.”

“Our little Q came up with a sex scene.” Margo sits up straight on the bed, delighted. “Oooh, gimme, gimme.”

“I- uh.” Quentin flushes, a bright flash of pink high on his cheeks. “Can it be- a surprise? Like. I mean. I know your safewords? So. If you don't like it, you can- or you can just tell me. I feel like you'd like it, though. I hope.”

“More and more intriguing,” Eliot says. He exchanges a glance with Margo and she nods, so he adds, “Absolutely, it can be a surprise. Is it happening right now or does it need prep?”

Quentin hesitates, bites down on his lip.

“You just- um. Maybe a couple of hours?” Quentin makes a shape with his hands, like he's outlining something. “If you could- if you two could. Dress up like- like before we- before we went to Fillory. Would that take a couple of hours or would you need longer?”

“Give us three and we can make it work,” Margo says, after a moment of consideration. “You want the full Brakebills experience, huh?”

“Uh-huh.” Quentin runs a hand through his hair, pushes it back. “Three hours?”

“Three hours,” Eliot agrees.

Quentin gives them an excited smile and then darts out of the room.

“Sounds like a shower is in order,” Margo says. “I think I'll straighten my hair. You wanna cut yours?”

His hair definitely _has_ grown out while they were in Fillory. Eliot thinks it over. He's gotten used to having it longer, but if he wants to be accurate to the pre-Fillorian version of himself...

“Yeah, let's do the time warp, Bambi.”

They both get clean – very thoroughly, since they don't know what Quentin has planned – and Margo trims Eliot's hair to a fair approximation of how it had looked when he'd first met Quentin. Then, it's outfit time.

“We should coordinate,” Margo decides. They do that sometimes, especially when they're setting out to share someone. It's different with Quentin, because everything is, but it's a good place to start. Not matching but complementary, with Eliot in shades of blue and green and Margo in a red dress with orange cutouts on the sides. After talking it over with Eliot, she also puts on a garter belt, clipping on a set of thigh-highs so dark a red as to be almost black.

Eliot carefully straightens his tie, smooths down the brocaded vest. He's managed to acquire new muscle definition while in Fillory, so the shirt and vest are slightly strained. He does a quick set of tuts to fix the measurements. Much better. His pants are tight, too, but that's less of a problem. Since they button, Eliot also forgoes anything underneath, to save on time later.

“Shoes?” Margo asks, holding up a tall wedge for his inspection. But Eliot has the beginnings of a presentation in mind now, so he shakes his head.

“We should be cuddling on the bed. Cozy. With drinks and sharing a smoke,” he says.

Margo tilts her head as she thinks it over.

“Yeah? I like it.”

She glides over to his nightstand and she's already tugging open the lower drawer when he remembers-

“Oh. _El_.” Margo pulls out one of the numerous – empty – whiskey bottles. Sets it back in to clink against the others. She doesn't turn to look at him and he's grateful for it. “You haven't been back here since-” She sits down on the bed, still facing away. “We've never actually talked about it. About him. About all this-” she gestures at the open drawer. “Even though it's the reason our thing with Q started.”

“There's not much to say.” Eliot sits down next to her. It's not that he's forgotten Mike – not-Mike – but as long as they were in Fillory, he was able to push most of the feelings about everything that happened during those days to the back of his mind. He'd been hoping he would be able to keep the memories at bay here, too, but it seems unlikely, especially now. Still- “None of it can be changed. And emotionally-open conversations aren't exactly our strong suit.”

“Except for that once,” Margo corrects, gently. The night the Trials had forced them to admit their secrets to each other, had turned them from casual party friends into inseparable companions. “El, I don't want us to just slap a fuck bandaid over your pain and ignore it. It works for a while, but not forever.”

“It's not like he was the first time I've killed someone,” Eliot says. It had sounded more comforting in his head. Margo wraps her arm around his back, leans her head against his shoulder. He pats her hand. “We- we'll talk about it, I promise. Just- not right now. I want to stay in a good mood for Q's sex game.”

“In the morning?” she suggests. After a moment, he nods.

“We need those drinks,” Eliot says, forcing his tone to brighten. “Wine. White? No, let's do red. Q likes it better.” He does a quick spell to transport up a bottle and two glasses from the bar downstairs. Margo raids another drawer and pulls out a half-used pack of cigarettes.

It takes Eliot a few minutes to recover the anticipation buzz that Quentin's excitement had given him earlier, but once he does, he and Margo set to creating a pleasing display.

He rolls his shirtsleeves up and loosens his tie, ruffles his curls. Margo puts on some jewelry, careful not to select anything that's likely to snag on clothes and skin. They settle down on the bed, sheets left rumpled, and Margo rests in the circle of his arms. She uses a tut to light a cigarette while he fills up the wine glasses, leaving the bottle on the nightstand where he can reach it easily enough for later. It's a familiar pose, comfortable for gossiping and staring across the room at cute boys.

“Do you think he'll be right on time?” Margo asks, kicking her leg over his to pull them closer together, running her toes up the back of his calf. He reaches down and strokes the soft nylon of her stockings. She hands him the cigarette and takes one of the glasses from him. “Is he waiting outside right now for exactly three hours to pass?”

Eliot takes a drag on the cigarette, holds the smoke in for a long moment before exhaling. They didn't have _this_ in Fillory either. At least, nothing he'd trusted enough to risk smoking. “Probably,” he says, feeling languid and lazy and ready to explore whatever it is that's on Quentin's mind.

Quentin _does_ come into the room precisely at the three hour mark and it is- quite an entrance.

He looks... adorable is the only word Eliot can summon up to describe it – very nerdy, with sleeves that hang over his hands and that silly messenger bag slung around his chest, and all in shades of beige and brown and black.

“Hey, there. Hello,” Quentin says, with such a dorky wave that Eliot instantly falls in love all over again. “I'm- you don't- I'm Quentin. Coldwater. Quentin Coldwater. I was just- just put here. By the Dean.”

“You're a physical kid,” Eliot says, allowing a hint of doubt to enter his voice as he hands the cigarette off to Margo. “What's your discipline, Coldwater?”

“Oh, I'm not- I mean, I don't know. He said you had extra room here and I'm- ah. Undetermined.” Quentin stumbles closer, taking off his bag and dropping it at the foot of the bed. Sitting there. “I just... I've seen you? Around campus? And you both seem. Um. Really talented. At magic.”

“We've got all kinds of talents,” Margo says, after breathing out a lungful of smoke. “But if you've got a point, I'd love to hear you get to it sometime before the next millennium.”

“Look, I don't mean- mean to intrude, but I'm... this place is amazing,” Quentin says, and Eliot is fairly amazed himself that Quentin can summon up so much wonder in his voice after what they've all been through. “And I'm, well-” He gestures to himself. “-just me. I'm not sure I can keep up. But I thought, maybe... if you tutored me...”

“Not that I don't love to help the less fortunate and all that...” Eliot interrupts himself to take a sip of the wine, takes his time with it. “But I'm hoping there's something in this for us?”

“I mean- yeah.” Quentin brings a leg up onto the bed, shifts forward. “Anything you want.”

“Bold offer to make to a pair of hedonists like us,” Eliot says. This is an _interesting_ little fantasy of Quentin's and Eliot wonders for a moment, what thoughts Quentin might have already had about him and Margo, before they ever had that first night together. “You sure you don't want to put restrictions on that?”

“You'd be teaching me magic... helping me stay here.” Quentin's tongue peeks out and touches his lower lip. “That's worth anything.”

“How do we know _you're_ worth it?” Margo asks, bluntly. “I mean, let's be real here. El and I could fuck any guy on campus and we'd blow his mind so hard he wouldn't dream of asking us for anything in exchange. What are you bringing to the table that's so special?”

Quentin's gaze sharpens for a moment, and Eliot swears he can actually _see_ Quentin bite back the smart-ass comment he's dying to make about Margo's absurdly high self-confidence. Then he softens again. Smiles. “If you want, I can suck off your boyfriend first? I know a lot of- a lot of women don't like the taste, but I don't mind it. And you can make sure I do it right.”

Eliot sees where Quentin is going with this – and why he thinks that Eliot and Margo would enjoy it too – but the framing is getting... intriguingly specific.

Margo makes a show of studying Quentin, not being the least bit subtle about how she's looking him up and down. She unhooks her leg from Eliot's, rolls away slightly, and now there's enough space between their bodies for Quentin to work his way in there. Quentin doesn't move yet, of course.

“What you do think, El?” Margo flicks the cigarette away, does a quick tut to pop it safely to the ashtray on the other side of the room. “You wanna get your dick sucked by...” She pauses, hmms thoughtfully. “What was your name again, first-year?”

If Margo had pulled that move on Quentin back when she'd first been getting to know him for real, she would have gotten some grade-A bitching and eye-rolling from him, but the version of Quentin that he's playacting just looks shy and hopeful as he repeats, “Quentin Coldwater.”

“Coldwater's definitely the easier part of the name to remember,” Margo says, decisively. “We'll stick with that. So, El, you want Coldwater to suck your dick?”

Now Eliot lets himself make the same kind of slow perusal of Quentin that Margo had done, earlier, lingers on his mouth, then says, “I suppose I can give him a chance to prove he's worthy of our mentorship.” Quentin leans forward, eager. Eliot taps his wine glass, has it refill itself from the bottle. “This _is_ a test so... no hands. Extra points if you get me worked up enough to spill my drink, but you'll have to clean up the mess. If you do a good enough job, Bambi and I will show you a spell. It's a bargain, really. We have a deal, Coldwater?”

“Deal,” Quentin says, bending over and pressing a chaste kiss against Eliot's knee. His mouth stays closed but Eliot can feel the warmth of it through the fabric. His eyebrows come down, thoughtful, and Eliot suspects he's wondering how all-encompassing the 'no hands' directive was.

It's difficult but Eliot makes himself turn away, towards Margo, watching Quentin out of the corner of his eye. He says, as casually as he can, “Bambi, dearest, we must remember to go shopping tomorrow. My wardrobe is shockingly out of date.” Quentin has decided he's still allowed to brace himself on his hands and elbows as he mouths along Eliot's leg down to his crotch. He ends up nestled very sweetly between Eliot's thighs, nuzzling against fabric already starting to strain as Eliot's cock hardens. Eliot takes a sip of wine, his throat dry enough that he almost wishes he'd decided on water instead.

“Yeah, and I noticed you picked up some bulk on our va-cay,” Margo says. She stretches out her leg to wrap around Eliot's, like before, but now it means she's firmly pressing down against Quentin's back. “I think my legs might have more muscle now, too. We did _so much_ walking. All those fucking idyllic woodland nature hikes.” It's comforting, in a way, to talk with Margo about Fillory like it had been just another trip, and not a place Eliot had been certain he might have to spend the rest of his life ruling, with no way out. Eliot wants to go back, of course, but he also- also wants to be able to have the choice to leave sometimes, too.

Quentin is fumbling over the buttons on Eliot's pants, trying to use his teeth and tongue to wiggle them undone. Which means that his mouth is pushing down against Eliot's dick, over and over, in a lovely teasing way.

Eliot wants to stroke Quentin's hair, wants to help him out, but that's- not this particular game, so instead he reaches down and caresses Margo's leg where it stretches across Quentin's back. He dances his fingers across the top of the stocking, where it meets her soft skin. “It did you good. Your legs look wonderful,” he says, tugs her closer, so that her bare pussy will press up against Quentin's perfectly hideous shirt and give her a bit of friction.

“They do,” Margo agrees, happily, flexing her ankle where it's tucked behind his knee. “I could kick the head off of a gorilla now.”

There's a stifled laugh from Quentin, quickly buried against Eliot's trousers.

Q's gotten past the first button, but appears to be distracted by the fact that he can taste skin now, because he's licking and sucking at what he can reach instead of working on freeing Eliot's dick from his pants.

“I would love to see you do that,” Eliot says to Margo, with deep sincerity. He drinks some more wine and then says, his voice sharpening slightly, “You know, Coldwater, if you _are_ so worried about flunking out of Brakebills, I'd think it might inspire you to want to work more quickly.”

There's a huff of breath against his skin and Quentin says, so quietly that Eliot almost doesn't hear, “...impatient dick.” Magnanimously, Eliot elects to ignore him. Anyway, then Quentin _does_ get to work on the next button, so job accomplished, ten points to Eliot.

“Flavor of the month has some muscle too,” Margo says, feeling up Quentin's biceps with her free hand, and she does a tolerable job of sounding like she's just realized this and hasn't seen Quentin naked on a near-nightly basis for months. “If he ends up being bad at sex, maybe we can just have him lift things for us.”

Quentin doesn't respond that time, but Eliot swears he can _feel_ an outraged silence from him anyway.

Then Q's mouth is finally on his dick, so Eliot lets himself stop thinking for a while. Quentin has only gotten better at cocksucking as time has gone by, and he is certainly bringing his A-game today. The way he kisses the head of Eliot's dick like he's fucking in love with it, how he knows exactly the right places to focus on, and, of course, how he can take it into his throat for so much longer now. Eliot relaxes against the pillows, his shoulders supported securely by the headboard, and attempts to sublimate his desire to touch Quentin by petting Margo's hair instead.

It doesn't really work.

“He's not bad at sex,” Eliot says, and his voice is only shaking _slightly_. “I mean, there's always room for improvement, but he's doing okay.”

Quentin swallows around his dick and Eliot does end up spilling a little of the wine onto Q's back. Which... he hadn't really thought things out, earlier, when he'd said that Q would clean up any messes. It's not really logistically possible. The wine runs down Q's skin, puddles up against the fabric of Margo's stocking. _That's_ a thought. Eliot reaches down, encourages her to pull her knee up higher along Q's back, pressing the stocking against Q's skin until he's only somewhat damp.

Eliot taps the top of Quentin's head, lightly, and Q pulls off his dick, looking disgruntled.

This is... a very thin line to try to balance on, with Quentin's particular needs and dislikes during sex, but Eliot thinks... well, he gives it a try. “Hey, Coldwater. Some of my wine ended up on Bambi's leg. I believe clean-up was part of our arrangement?” He makes his voice as breezy as he can manage, doing his best to make it clear this is optional while still not breaking out of Q's scene.

“Was it?” Quentin asks, and raspy tone of Q's voice after having a dick in his throat is genuinely one of Eliot's favorite things in existence. Quentin licks at the head of Eliot's cock, then shifts onto his left side so that he's angled towards Margo.

“I'm all wet,” Margo says, and Quentin isn't always the best at double-meanings and broad hints, but he definitely picks up on that one, his gaze darting between her stocking-covered leg and the place between her thighs that's still mostly hidden by her dress. Quentin's hand slides up the outside of her leg, and he leans down and sucks against the nylon, which can't possibly taste good even with a decent red added into the flavor. But Quentin is- he's into it, closing his eyes and getting that odd yearning look on his face that he gets sometimes. Eliot isn't completely sure what it means, but it doesn't seem to be bad. Margo squirms, and her wineglass is perilously close to losing its contents too.

Eliot lifts a hand, floats both their glasses back to the nightstand. They've served their purpose for now.

“You wanna try out his mouth?” Eliot asks, relief washing through him like a drug. He settles a steadying hand on Quentin's back, rubs reassuringly so he'll remember it's a question for him, too. “For a first-year, he has tolerable technique.”

They've done almost exactly this for real, him and Margo, back in the times before Quentin. It's strange how very much a façade it is now, and he feels like he might never again be that man – that boy, really, who had played at being debauched and world-weary. It's not an unpleasant feeling, but it's naked in a way that feels dangerous.

Eliot continues to feel unsettled as he watches Quentin eat Margo out.

This has lasted longer now than any relationship he's ever had, even longer than that unfortunate stint during high school with Traci when he was pretending so hard to be straight.

It was easier in Fillory, where time slipped by almost unnoticed. Here, surrounded by the evidence of who he used to be...

Margo clutches at his arm as she orgasms, relaxes onto the bed after, lets her thighs fall open as Quentin continues to lick at her, fervent as ever in his devotion. Eliot kisses her throat, puts his hand on her stomach. Her breathing is calming down now, though her hips are still twitching up against Quentin's mouth. “I think that earned you a bit of magic. Hmm? Do you have any requests, Coldwater, or should I pick?”

Quentin looks up, his mouth shiny and red. Shakes his head. “Whatever you think I deserve.”

Eliot wonders distantly if that phrasing hits Margo as hard as it hits him. He reaches down, puts his fingers in Quentin's hair, tugs. Literally every spell he knows has left his brain, so he glances desperately at Margo.

She's flushed around the edges, but nods. Says, “We should teach our new little first-year a party trick.” She taps Quentin on the nose so that he'll focus on her, does some tuts Eliot recognizes, a golden chain of light wrapping around her wrist.

Music starts up out of thin air, the lyrics filtering into his brain, though Eliot knows these ones already.

“ _Everyone is special in their own way_ ,” Margo sings, and Quentin collapses in giggles. “ _We make each other strong_.”

“High School Musical?” Quentin asks, his voice breaking at the end as he laughs again, but when the song prompts him and Eliot to join in, he does. Margo holds the spell for most of the song, fading it out before the ending. Then they give Quentin a little time to recover from the spell and put himself back into the scene.

“We know a lot of party tricks,” Eliot says. “Comes with throwing the best ones. You like parties, Coldwater?”

“Not usually,” Quentin says. Margo smiles, looking a little sly.

“Hmm, I'm not sure I approve of how informal you're being with us. Now that we're officially your mentors,” she says, mock-stern. Quentin kisses her thigh and blinks up at her. “We are doing you a pretty big favor here. I feel like we should be getting more respect.”

Quentin thinks about that for a while, as Eliot pets through his hair.

“Sorry? Um... ma'am?” Quentin says, to start with. He sounds a bit confused but willing and... yeah, this is a good idea of Margo's, that maybe this idea will work if Quentin comes up with something himself, during a scene. Quentin frowns, then says, hesitantly, “Ms. Hanson?” It brings a faint flush to his cheeks so...

“Ms. Hanson works,” Margo says. Quentin's blush deepens. “And you should show some gratitude to- ah- my boyfriend. For letting you blow him. There are _countless_ boys and girls out there gagging for it who never get to touch him.”

In Eliot's opinion, that's slightly over-the-top, but Q likes it, nodding like he's been hypnotized. Quentin bites down on his lip, swallows a couple of times, then says, very softly, “Thank you, Mr. Waugh, for letting me suck your dick. It was an honor.” And the words themselves are awkward and stilted, but his cheeks are bright pink and his eyes are sincere.

Eliot holds back a very heartfelt – but out of character – 'fuck', instead says, more coolly, “Well, it is the duty of the upperclass students to show the first-years the ropes.”

“I really- uh. Really appreciate it. Mr. Waugh,” Quentin says, and Eliot is liking the way it sounds in his mouth. It reminds him of what a heady rush he'd felt when he first started getting mail with that name, the one he'd picked out, the one that separated him from the family that hated him so much. It just... it's good. Coming from Q. “I'd like. If you wanted to come down my throat or- or on my face?” Quentin is flushed red, but that just makes hearing him say all that even better.

And it really _really_ makes Eliot want to tease him and draw things out more.

He reaches down, places a finger on Quentin's mouth. Q drops his jaw, and Eliot slides his finger inside, rests it heavy on Quentin's tongue.

“I think I want to finish my smoke first,” Eliot says. “So how about you get down there and do this with my cock, just let it stay inside that warm, wet mouth of yours, while I continue my conversation with Bambi, hmm? You did interrupt us, if you'll recall.”

Quentin's eyes are fucking sparkling.

Eliot presses his finger deep enough to touch the back of Quentin's throat, just for a moment, then pulls it out again. Puts his hand on Quentin's head, pushes him back down to Eliot's cock. Margo curls around Quentin's side again, and she is definitely leaving a wet spot on his shirt now.

Then Quentin's mouth is around his dick, not sucking or moving, just lovely and perfect. Eliot stretches his fingers, floats the cigarette back to his hand and relights it. After he and Margo are done with it, he pulls a second one from the pack, and he and Margo share that one too. Eliot can feel the breath from Quentin's nose, but other than that, Quentin is as still as a statue, like he's meditating.

After the second cigarette is down to the butt, Eliot floats it back over to the ashtrash and stubs it out, then drops his hand into Quentin's hair, finally raising his hips up to thrust – gently – into Quentin's mouth. Quentin still doesn't lick or suck, because Eliot hasn't told him to, just allows it. He fucks into Q's mouth, shallow, enjoying the heat and the slide against his soft tongue. The way Quentin's lips stretch wide around him, the way his eyelashes flutter like he's having the best dream in the world.

When Eliot is starting to feel like he needs to speed up, he stops instead, lets himself relax onto the bed, gently tugging Quentin off him by the hair. “You are doing great, Coldwater, definitely well on the way to earning yourself another spell,” he says. Quentin smiles at him, hazy and lost in it. “Tell me, if you could have me do anything right now, what would it be?”

Quentin glances down at Eliot's dick, his brow furrowing slightly, then he looks over in Margo's direction. “Can I watch you fuck your girlfriend, Mr. Waugh?”

Huh. That is- not what Eliot had expected. He turns the thought over in his head. It's not something he and Margo have talked about, in context of this relationship they have with Q-

Then Quentin's eyes go wide.

His face pales.

He looks like he's about to throw up.

His hand darts up to cover his mouth as he starts to scramble backwards on the bed.

“Oh, sh- shit, El. _Shit_. I'm so sorry.”

He doesn't get very far, since Margo is draped over him like a blanket but it's clear he's fallen out of the scene with a painful thud.

He's still apologizing, stumbling over it.

Eliot doesn't know how to help.

“Do you need to be alone right now?” Margo asks, her hand rubbing over Quentin's back, soothing. Quentin frantically shakes his head, turns and presses his face against Margo's stomach. Eliot thinks he can still hear him whispering 'sorry' against her dress.

“Quentin... _Q_ , you don't need to apologize to me,” Eliot says, as gently as he can.

He strokes Quentin's back, and his muscles are trembling and jerking, his breathing has gone short and heavy, almost hyperventilating.

“It's okay, honey. You didn't do anything wrong. It's okay.” And he pets and pets and pets, Quentin shivering under them and this is- he thinks this might be an actual panic attack, or the edges of one. “I'm fine. I'm not insulted or hurt, I promise.”

It takes time. It feels like forever, though it's probably closer to ten or twenty minute, until Quentin finally stops shaking.

“I'm sorry,” Quentin says again, but his voice is only hoarse now, not quavering with the potential for tears. “I fucked it all up.” His face is still smashed up against Margo, muffling his voice, and she cards her fingers through his hair. “I wanted- um. I wanted to-”

“You didn't go into this planning to ask me to fuck Bambi,” Eliot says, first of all, because he's absolutely certain of that, from Quentin's reaction. “But it came out in the scene. Do you think you know why?”

Quentin rolls over, onto his back, and his face- he looks so fucking miserable and agonized that it makes every protective instinct inside Eliot jump to attention. Except the thing making Q upset is inside his own head, and how can Eliot protect him from _that_?

“You've had this fantasy before, or a similar one,” Margo prompts. Quentin nods. “Before you even met us, I think. Wanna tell us about the couple you fantasized about playing third to, baby Q?”

His face twists up, unhappily, then he lets out a heavy breath. “Ugh. Yeah, I- um. You remember my friend Julia, right?”

“We remember Julia,” Eliot says, evenly. On another day, he might have teased Quentin for thinking they might have forgotten her. But not today. “You've been friends with her for a long time, right?”

He doesn't dislike Julia with Margo's fierceness, but he doesn't have many particularly good memories of her, either.

“Since we were kids,” Quentin says, and there's some fondness in his voice now, instead of just the misery. “We- um. We were both dorky and unpopular in. In middle school. Most of high school.”

“Most?” Margo asks.

“She got hot summer break before senior year,” Quentin explains. “Pretty much the whole school noticed? But she-uh. She refused to stop being my friend to go hang out with the cool kids. So, you know- I- I kinda- she stood up for me, in front of everyone, and I-”

“Feelings blossomed and you developed a crush on her?” Eliot suggests.

“Yeah. And she was never- honestly, I don't think she's ever even thought about me like that. And when we went- um. When we went to college the next year, she met James and it was like- an instant thing, I guess? For them? And I was- I was jealous but I also- also-”

“Would have sucked his dick while Julia ordered you around?” Margo rolls her eyes at the death glare Eliot gives her. “What? It's true, right?”

“Yeah,” Quentin admits, only slightly reluctantly. “She- uh. She told me once, a couple of months after they starting dating, that she hated given blowjobs because they taste bad and I didn't- um. She didn't know yet that I liked guys too, so I didn't say anything but- I don't mind the taste.”

“That, my darling, is a wild understatement,” Eliot says, booping Quentin lightly on the nose. “So, in the original fantasy, you blow Julia's boyfriend and then he fucks her while you watch?”

And then, given the way Quentin's desires normally run, Eliot bets the next part of the fantasy would be him licking the boyfriend's spunk out of her pussy. Which- Eliot's not a hundred percent sure about fucking Margo right now, but he _would_ like to watch Quentin eat her out while she's dripping with his come so... it's something to consider.

“Sorry,” Quentin says.

“You don't have to be,” Eliot tells him. “I don't mind you getting caught up in a scene. If you suggest something I don't want to do, I have options.”

“Safeword?”

“That's one of them,” Eliot says. “I could also have turned it around in the scene. Said something about how I can fuck my girlfriend any time I want, so let's do something else instead.”

Quentin thinks about that, then nods.

He still seems unhappy. Eliot brushes his knuckles under Quentin's jaw. “What else is wrong, Q?”

“You never even got to come,” Q says, the words all in a rush. “I wanted- this was for you and now it's all about me and I just-” Quentin's mouth twists and he says, quietly, “I think Dean Fogg was wrong.”

“Wrong about what?” Margo asks, sharing a confused look with Eliot.

“About me,” Quentin says. “He said- um. That I wasn't crazy or depressed. That I wouldn't need my meds now that I have magic. But I think- I think maybe he was wrong. I've been thinking that for, I guess, a couple of weeks now. Because- because before we got kicked out, everything was great and I didn't have-uh, any _reason_ to be sad or worried, but I was starting to- um. But I was hoping it- it would go away.”

Eliot is going to punch Henry Fogg. It's going to happen. He can almost picture it, right now. It's so clear. This must be what having a prophetic vision feels like.

“You have meds you should be taking and Henry told you to stop?” Eliot asks. As calmly as he can manage. “Are they in your room?”

“Um. I gave them to the Dean,” Quentin says. “Before I signed the waiver.”

Over a year ago, now. Almost this entire time.

“Okay, we'll go and pick those up as soon as we're done here,” Margo says, brightly.

“Should I take them, though?” Quentin asks. “I mean. He must have- maybe if I take my meds, it'll make it harder for me to do magic? And I'm not that strong anyway, so can I really afford to get any weaker?”

“No,” Margo says, with the certainty of a black hole. “It won't make magic harder. If all the fucked-up drugs and alcohol that you've seen us throw back over the last year hasn't hurt _our_ casting any, there's no reason to think your prescription drugs will hurt yours.”

Quentin's mouth twitches, and he looks at Eliot. “But magic comes from-”

“-pain, okay, I see where you're going with this,” Eliot says. He takes a moment, to try to untangle some thoughts in his brain, so that he can undo some of the damage it sounds like he caused at the start of Quentin's time at Brakebills. “That's- I get why you took that from what I said, given the conversation it sounds like Henry had with you. But when I talk about magic being fueled from pain, I don't mean-” Eliot tries to think of how to express it in a way that will help Quentin as a person, not as a magician. “Not _immediate_ pain. It's more that all the screwed-up shit we experience gives us the depth of knowledge to reach through the- the broken parts of who we are, to access our magical abilities. You have- you still have those experiences, Q, the ones that shaped you.”

“You've _seen_ how much Fogg drinks,” Margo adds. “That man is constantly numbing his own pain and yet, despite everything, still manages to be a powerful fucking magician.”

“So I should take my meds?” Quentin asks or... says or... there's a slight question in his tone still.

“You should take your meds,” Eliot says. “Would they have helped with what just happened?”

“Eh, not- not specifically? But I might not have been as much on edge to start with,” Quentin says. “I- um... are you familiar with- uh, catastrophizing?” Eliot is, vaguely. “As a- my brain was trying to tell me that I- um. That I fucked up so bad that you wouldn't want to. Anymore. That you wouldn't even want to be my friends anymore. Um, you probably noticed that I'm- I have a lot of-” His mouth twists again, and Eliot is far too familiar with the way self-loathing looks like not to recognize it.

“It's okay,” he says, touches Quentin's cheek. “You know we like you, right? We love you, but we also _like_ you.”

“You're a fucking nerd, but you're our nerd,” Margo says, and her voice is aggressive but her hand in Quentin's hair stays soft. “So, you know. You're a depressed geek who's a little socially maladjusted. Whatever. I'm an arrogant bitch with anger issues. You like me anyway.”

“I do like you,” Quentin says. He turns his head, kisses the cloth over her stomach. Quentin's voice is getting dreamy again, falling back into it, and Eliot's not sure whether or not it's a good idea. But he doesn't want to be overprotective and baby Quentin when he doesn't want it, so it's a probably a good time to not make assumptions.

“Q honey, you're feeling better?” Eliot asks.

“Uh-huh,” Quentin says, nosing against Margo's dress.

“Okay, good, I've got an important question.” Eliot cups Quentin's cheek, drawing his attention back. “Is this sex you _want_ to have or sex you think you owe us?”

Quentin stops and thinks about it. Q has... such loud thoughts. Everything shows up on his face. Eliot doesn't always guess right about what it _means_ , but he can see the struggle, there, where Quentin is trying to place his feelings into words.

“I do feel bad that my- that I ruined things,” Quentin admits, slowly. “But you're also- um. Really hot like this? Part of my fantasy was from- from when I was in college, but the way you- the way you look is all about you. I've missed these clothes. You look nice in the Fillory stuff, too, but I missed-” He reaches over, tugs Eliot's tie out of his vest, rubs his fingers along it. “I spent a lot of time thinking about you in these clothes.”

“Second question,” Margo says, and Quentin shifts his gaze over to her. “Do you wanna just screw or do you want to try to finish your scene? And, remember, El and I don't ask trick questions during sex. We want you honest.”

Quentin looks ashamed, which means Eliot isn't surprised when he says, “I kinda wanna still do the- the scene? But I'm not sure how to- um. How to fix where I screwed it up.”

“Then I guess we do get to be your mentors for real, after all,” Margo says. At Quentin's curious look, she adds, “What, you think El and I never botched a scene?”

“Oh, are we talking about that now?” Eliot asks, amused. “I thought you wanted it stricken from the record forever, Miss Margo.” She smacks his hip, quick but hard enough that her hand bounces. Eliot laughs. “No, please. Tell Q. I insist.”

“I should make you leave the room while I do,” Margo grumbles.

“Is that what he calls you when you do the- uh, the humiliation stuff?” Quentin asks. He sounds so much less freaked out about it than he had when he'd first learned Eliot liked it that way sometimes. “Miss Margo?”

“It is,” Margo says. She glances over at Eliot. He gives her a lazy shrug. She's the one embarrassed by the story, not him. She sighs and pets Quentin's hair. “Right. It was our second time doing it. The first time had gone really well, so I was feeling pretty confident.”

“Pride goeth-” Eliot teases.

“ _Anyway_ , I've got El naked, on his knees, hands tied behind his back and he's got a spreader bar – do you know what that is? You absolutely don't, that's fine, now that we're on Earth again, we can show you later – anyway, pretty vulnerable, right?”

“Don't forget the cock cage,” Eliot says, in a stage whisper.

“Oh, for fuck's sake, El, which one of us is telling this story?” Margo rolls her eyes. “And his cock is caged up to keep him from getting hard. Jesus. That's completely irrelevant to the important part, dickwad.”

“Feels like a key background element,” Eliot says. It also seems like the sort of thing Q would like to try out at some point, so no harm in mentioning it. “You have to properly set the scene, Bambi. Don't just rush to the climax.”

“Should I describe what I was wearing too, then?” Margo asks, sarcastically.

“Um, yeah. I'd like that,” Quentin says. Margo peers down at him, tugs at his hair, which makes him close his eyes and arch up against her.

“Fine, just for you,” Margo says, like it's the greatest imposition in the world. “Pretty standard dominatrix gear. We hadn't personalized anything yet. I have better shit in my closest now but it was basically just shiny black pleather straps back then. It did show off my tits nicely, not that El gave a shit about that.”

“As far as breasts go, yours are great,” Eliot says, with as much enthusiasm as he can muster. Margo's flat look tells him she's not particularly impressed by the effort. He shrugs again.

“So what happened?” Quentin asks. “How did it- how did it go wrong?”

“I had-” Margo hesitates, glances over at Eliot. He give her a smile to reassure her that he genuinely does not mind Quentin knowing this about him. “I'd just slapped El's face and the next thing we'd planned out was for me to- to spit in his mouth. Except- except my timing and my aim was... slightly off.”

“She spit in my eye,” Eliot says. “Right on my fucking eyeball. It was the grossest thing, Q.”

“Oh, _you're_ allowed to rush to the climax, I see,” Margo grouses. “But, yeah. I spit in his eye, he yelled like I'd stabbed him, and he _fell over_ and fucking _dislocated_ his _shoulder_ , and then! He insisted we had to rinse his eye out first before getting him healed because he was whining about germs. And he kept laughing about it, for like an hour straight, the asshole.”

“An hour queer,” Eliot says, sotto voce, then giggles at his own joke while Margo makes sounds like an angry cat. “So, you see, everyone fucks up sometimes. And this was the first time you've ever tried to run a scene, right?”

“You know it was,” Quentin says. “How did you- then what?”

“After we'd gotten his shoulder fixed and he stopped braying like a goddamn donkey, we did a soft reset,” Margo says. “Talked through the scene until we were back where we'd left off.”

“Verbal role-play, in a sense,” Eliot says.

“Oh, theater of the mind?” Quentin asks, then flushes. Margo giggles.

“Our little supernerd,” she says, fondly.

“Hey, you got the reference. You're a nerd, too,” Quentin counters. Eliot did not get the reference – since it doesn't sound like they're talking about actual theater – but that's okay. “Actually, what do you think about trying to find a- not the time, right, okay, yeah.”

Margo pulls on his hair again, with that soft little smile she doesn't show to anyone outside their circle. “We can talk about it later. You wanna start us off with the scene?”

“Um. Anxious first-year gets assigned to the physical kids' cottage and he decides to approach two students that he finds- intimidating but smart and attractive-”

“They were boyfriend and girlfriend, weren't they?” Eliot asks. “In the story? I seem to remember that.”

“Is that... okay?” Quentin asks, his nose wrinkling. “I don't want to-”

“It's perfectly fine,” Eliot says. “It's part of the fantasy. Trust us to know our limits, Q.”

Quentin studies his face for a moment, then nods.

“Okay. He approaches this couple. Asks them to mentor him in exchange for whatever they want. But he- uh- makes it clear he's offering sex.” Quentin's blushing again, but faintly. “He- um, blows the boyfriend.” Eliot's dick is still sitting out in the open, though it's been soft for a while. Quentin leans over, quick and impulsive, presses a kiss against the head. “Then he- he eats out the girl.” His voice is starting to sound breathy. “She comes and he gets to- to taste her and clean her up.”

“The boyfriend is pretty impressed,” Eliot says, smoothly. He palms the back of Quentin's head, looks over at Margo, who nods. “Offers the first-year anything he wants. Encourages him to _be honest_. And the first-year says...”

“Can I... can I watch you fuck your girlfriend?” Quentin's words are hesitant and soft this time.

“Normally, that's a private thing between me and my girl,” Eliot says, and it's easy enough to stay in character when he's got Q looking at him like that. “But maybe I'll say yes if you sweeten the pot.”

“How?”

“You're a nerdy boy, aren't you? Maybe a bit of a teacher's pet?”

“Sure?” Quentin's eyebrows draw up uncertainly. “I guess?”

“So, there's another word for that, isn't there?” And Eliot is not sure why he thought coy hinting would work with Q, who is starting to look a little bewildered. Direct approach, it is. “If I fuck her, then I want you to – literally – kiss her ass while I'm doing it. Does that sound like something you can handle, Coldwater?”

“Oh,” Quentin says, sudden understanding flashing across his face as his cheeks flush darker. “Yeah. I can do that. Mr. Waugh.”

“Okay, then,” Eliot says. “First, my dick needs to be harder, then I'll decide.”

He puts his fingers into Quentin's hair as Quentin sinks back down onto his cock. It gives him time to think about the whole fucking Margo aspect of this. They'd hooked up once, like that, back when they were just drunk party friends, and she hadn't been 'Bambi' yet to him. The thing about sex with girls is that it doesn't hit his brain the right way. He hadn't come inside her, had needed to jerk himself off afterwards. This time, though, his head is liking the idea of Quentin doing after-fuck clean-up, which means he'll need to actually orgasm with his dick inside her.

If all else fails, he could make himself come with a spell, but that feels vaguely like cheating.

“You sure about this, El?” Margo asks, but quietly, leaning close so that Quentin won't hear. “I'm down for it, but it takes two to tango. Or three, in this case.” There's no judgement in her voice. He adores her, so much it hurts sometimes.

Eliot looks down, pushes Quentin's hair back so that he can see his face, eyes closed and a tiny line between his eyebrows as he focuses on Eliot with every ounce of himself. He's using his hands this time, since Eliot hadn't said not to, cupping and stroking his balls, jerking off the part of Eliot's dick that doesn't fit in his mouth. He's pretty, so fucking pretty, but-

Eliot's not-

He's _not_ sure about this. Fuck, he wants to do this for Q, he does, but-

He is, very occasionally, in the actual mood for screwing a girl. But not right now. Not even if it's Margo.

So he tugs Quentin off his dick, gently, cups Quentin's face in his hands. “I made up my mind,” he says, voice rough. “I wanna fuck _you_ , Coldwater. That gonna work?”

Quentin turns his head, kisses the center of Eliot's palm. He breathes for a moment, warm against Eliot's hands.

“Yeah, of course, Mr. Waugh,” he says. “I'd love that.”

Easy as anything.

Eliot leaves his own clothes on, because Quentin keeps reaching out to touch his tie and vest, but he and Margo strip Quentin down – kissing each new exposed bit of skin – until he's bare and eager. Eliot wraps his hand around Quentin's neck, which always settles him, makes him even more pliant than he is naturally, and kisses him for a long, long time. Quentin melts under Eliot's kisses, sitting up in his lap, their dicks occasionally brushing together as Quentin instinctively rocks against him.

“You really are lovely,” Eliot tells him, brushing his hair back behind his ear and pressing a kiss against his jaw. “How about we keep you, hmm? You want that? You wanna be our pet first-year?”

“Please, _yes_ , Mr. Waugh,” Quentin breathes out. “Yes, yes, yes.”

Eliot takes another deep kiss from him, then pushes him away, yanks him around so that his back is pressed against Eliot's chest. “I'm gonna find out if you can come without anyone touching your dick. Yeah?”

Quentin whimpers a little, but it's not a bad sound.

Margo touches Q's chin, gets his attention as she goes in for a kiss, messy and wet. Eliot slides a hand down Quentin's back, does a quick tut to slick up his fingers, and hooks two of them up inside, making Quentin moan into Margo's mouth. He twists around, finds Quentin's prostate and lets his fingers say hello. Strong muscles clench around him.

“You look like you'll take dick really well,” Eliot says, as Quentin keeps squirming on his fingers. “You want me to stretch you more or do you want to get fucked now?”

Quentin leans his head back against Eliot's shoulder, gasping like a landed fish. Eliot noses against his hair, feeling ridiculously tender as Quentin's chest heaves like he's a heroine in a cheesy B-movie. Eliot boosts Quentin up a bit, telekinetically, so that he can get a better angle as he continues to stretch Q with his fingers.

“You were asked a question,” Margo says, putting a hint of sharpness into her voice. She scoots closer, gets on her knees inside the vee of Eliot's legs so that she can put her hands on Quentin's hips and thumb at the dip of muscle there. “Come on, Coldwater. Pop quiz time. You ready for my boyfriend's dick up your ass?”

“God, yes, _please_ ,” Quentin says. He's been squeezing his hands into fists since Eliot turned him around, but now he reaches out, puts his hands on Margo's waist, strokes at her dress.

“He's got a big cock,” Margo says, conversationally. She presses a knuckle against Quentin's nipple, pushes so that it flattens against his pec. “So, you know, you should be sure you're ready, first-year. If we're gonna keep you, we don't want to break you on the first go-round.”

Quentin laughs at that, breathy and sounding almost high. “I'm- I'm sure-” His face crinkles in concentration and he adds, “Ms. Hanson. I'm sure. I _want_ \- I want his- please, I want him- want him to fuck me.”

And this is where magic comes in handy, since Eliot can hold Quentin right where he needs to be without any hands required, so it's easy to reach down and jerk himself off a few times, get his dick wet and ready, and then hold it in place while he loosens his magic bit by bit so that Quentin – shuddering and trembling – slowly slides down the length of his cock. Eliot presses his mouth against the top of Quentin's head, thoroughly buried in that glorious tight heat.

“ _God_ , El,” Quentin says. He licks his lips. Corrects himself. “Mr. Waugh. I feel-”

“Grateful?” Margo prompts. She licks her thumb and teases at Quentin's nipples.

“-so grateful,” Quentin agrees. “Thank you, Mr. Waugh.”

“I'm a giver,” Eliot says, overwhelmed. He tilts Quentin's head to the side so that he can suck and lick at the muscles of his neck and down to his shoulder. He's thankful Margo and Quentin can apparently keep up the role-play by themselves, because his own character has flown completely out of his brain and he's just Eliot again. They've done this more than a few times now but not enough – never enough – and he isn't used to the feeling of Quentin's ass clinging to his dick. He wishes he could tell Quentin how perfect he is in a way he'd actually believe, but Eliot does say, “You're so good at this, honey.”

“He's not even doing anything yet,” Margo says, on a laugh, but she leans in and gives Quentin a quick kiss as reassurance. “Hey, Coldwater, you wanna watch me rub one out? You can't touch.”

Eliot can't see Quentin's face well from this angle, but he can feel the shudder in how Q swallows, can feel his unsteady breaths. Sees the way his hands pull away from Margo's waist immediately, and then flutter hesitantly in the air.

“I'd love that, Ms. Hanson,” he says. “You're so beautiful.”

Margo sits back against Eliot's calves, loops her legs over his knees to spread them wide, the fabric of her dress stretching. She puts one hand behind to brace herself and slides the other down between her legs.

Eliot claims Quentin's hands, lacing their fingers together and wrapping their arms around Quentin's chest. He doesn't want this to be hard or fast, not right now. He nuzzles against Q's jaw. “You're gonna have to do the work,” he tells Q. “You've got all the leverage.”

Q rises up on his knees and it's delicious, how his ass doesn't want to let go, how it clutches and grips. Eliot kinda wishes he'd taken his own clothes off, because he's sweaty, overheated, but he's not gonna stop now just to get naked. And the way Quentin's bare back slides as he moves, rucking up the fabric of Eliot's vest, tugging at his tie, that's nice too. He glances down, and Quentin's cock bounces, heavy with beads of precome at the tip.

“I like your dick,” Eliot says, soft. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah?” Quentin's fingers tighten on his. “What- uh- what exactly? About it?”

“Mmm, the shape of the head, and that one vein traces along the shaft. Always get wets so easily, too, so flushed and needy, like the rest of you. I love how much of it I can get in my mouth.” He licks behind Quentin's ear. “The way you shiver when I pet you after you've come, and the way it looks, twitching but you can't get hard again.”

“That's a lot of things,” Quentin says. He turns his head, trying to catch Eliot's mouth with his. Eliot watches for a bit, in love with the desperate way Quentin tries to reach him, then leans down and rewards him with a long, luxurious kiss that turns into two into ten into twenty, drugging and slow. When the kiss breaks, Eliot leans his head against Quentin's, checks in on Margo. The stockings on her legs brush against his pants as she touches herself and she's staring down at where Eliot's cock is sliding in and out of Quentin. She's gorgeous, with her hair messy and her dress pushed up over her hips so that she can spread her legs wider.

“We'll fuck for you one day,” Eliot says, presses his cheek against Quentin's, enjoying the rub of Q's stubble on his skin. “I do like it sometimes. We'll find the right moment.”

He tightens his arms around Quentin, which slows the rock of his hips, but Eliot doesn't mind drawing it out. Quentin watches Margo greedily, his hands twitching in Eliot's with the obvious urge to reach out and touch, though he wouldn't, of course, even if his hands were free. Eliot wants- wants to touch _more_ , so he pulls Quentin's hands up, into the air, presses his wrists together, asks, “Is this okay?” Lets Quentin feel the light pressure of magic holding his arms up, separate from Eliot's hands.

“Uh-huh,” Quentin says, then he takes a breath. Rallies. “Yeah, you can.”

Eliot slides his fingers down Quentin's arms. Enjoys feeling Quentin's muscles flexing and releasing. There's a slight give and stretch in the magic, so Quentin can keep moving on Eliot's cock, but he's mostly stuck in place.

Eliot cups a hand around Quentin's throat, teasingly, then releases it as Quentin sighs. He thumbs over Quentin's mouth, which opens for him, so he hooks his thumb inside, fucks Q's mouth with it while Quentin tries to suck and lick at him. He slides his thumb out, runs a slick line down Quentin's chin, rubs his hands over Q's chest.

He plucks at Quentin's nipples, tugs gently and twists, just enough to prompt Quentin make soft noises, not enough to really hurt. He knows Q's body fairly well but, delightfully, keeps discovering new quirks.

He rubs Quentin's belly, and Q's dick is heavy enough now that it's listing away from his body. He strokes his fingers near the base of Quentin's cock but doesn't touch it.

He hears a familiar breathy gasp and looks over to see Margo's face twist up and her body tighten as she comes around her fingers. Quentin shivers too, just from watching her.

“You want to taste her, don't you?” Eliot asks, and Quentin nods, frantic. “Mmm, Bambi, Coldwater's thirsty.”

She's dreamy and slow, but she pulls her fingers away from her pussy, gets her knees under herself, and leans forward to press her wet fingers against Q's lips. Three fingers, pushing deep enough that Eliot can feel Quentin's throat trying to swallow around her. Margo slides her fingers out again, cups Quentin's chin and kisses him. Eliot gets a hand in her hair and she smiles at him, then kisses him, too, on the corner of his mouth.

“I am not up to any more work,” Margo says, decisively. She lays back down on the bed, stretches her arms over her head and arches her back. Her legs are still looped over his, so he – and, more importantly, Quentin – can see her damp pussy glistening. “But I wouldn't say no to another orgasm. Just give me a minute.”

So Eliot turns Quentin's head to pull him back into a kiss, holding him in place, resting a hand on Q's chest to feel his heart racing. Quentin's rhythm on his dick is slow but steady, like he's willing to keep at it until his muscles give out from under him. Eliot can taste Margo in Q's mouth, second-hand but still sharp.

He struggles for a moment to remember the scene Quentin set up for them at the beginning, but he's lost it entirely. He's supposed to be more formal than he usually is, maybe? He's not sure he can do that right now, with his lovely boy sliding on his dick so perfect and smooth.

“Sweetheart, I'm gonna let you eat out Bambi.” Eliot taps at the corner of Q's mouth, smiling when Quentin immediately licks at him. “I can fuck you harder that way, too, but you gotta let me know if you get close to coming, okay?” He wants to watch it, wants to see Q's dick spurt out all over himself.

It feels like a hundred-million years, waiting for Quentin's answer, which comes after a slow blink and a tight clench of muscles around Eliot. “Yeah, I wanna.” Then he kisses at Eliot's hand again, his mouth sloppy and loose.

Eliot tugs on Quentin's hands with his magic, uses that to help guide them down onto the bed, then slides the grip of his mind from Quentin's wrists to his hips, holding him up so that his cock won't touch the bed.

“Hands under Bambi, okay?” Quentin is always so good, but Eliot's gonna make it easy for him not to touch himself. “Remember to- to ask permission before.”

He rubs his hands down the length of Quentin's back, glorying in the smooth muscles. The big tattoo between his shoulder blades shines in the light, and Eliot rubs his fingers over the lines of ink. He checks that Quentin is settled in place, knees planted on the bed, hands sliding under Margo's ass to hold her up as he whispers, “Can I?”

Margo smiles, slow and devastating, says, “Ask politely, first-year.”

Quentin kisses her thigh, asks again, breathy, “Can I please, Ms. Hanson?”

“Mmm, yes. Do a good job and I'll show you a real great spell afterwards, Coldwater.” Then Margo drops her head back to the bed, sighing happily as Quentin presses his mouth against her.

Now that's all settled, Eliot braces himself, slides most of the way out of Q, loving the way his body resists, tries to hold Eliot inside. A satin-sweet glide back in, making sure he hits the prostate, enjoying the full-body shudder it causes. Eliot kisses the back of Quentin's neck, tells him what a good boy he is, enjoys the shiver from _that_ , too.

He keeps it slow as long as he can stand it, until his body is screaming _more_ and _faster_ at him.

Quentin's mouth is buried against Margo's cunt, but Eliot can hear the noises he makes as Eliot's thrusts quicken. Margo has embraced her current role as a pillow princess, entirely relaxed as Quentin works to please her.

Even when she comes again, it's just a momentary tightening of her body before she lays loose and easy on the bed, quivering slightly as Quentin keeps licking, more gentle now.

Eliot loses himself to the grip and clench of Quentin's ass as he pumps in and out and, _fuck_ , he could do this the rest of his life and never get bored of it. The thought makes him stutter, a flash-freeze of terror locking him up for a second before Quentin's heat around him smoothes it out again. No thinking about the distant future, just about here and now and the way Quentin is whimpering against Margo's skin.

Then he hears Q's voice, soft and stumbling, “El- I'm gonna- _El_...”

He shudders to a halt inside Quentin. Pets over his waist and back. Actually pulling out of Quentin is- an unspeakable horror, but he manages it, reaching down and petting at the shivering, convulsing muscles like a promise that he'll be back soon.

Eliot flips Quentin onto his back and his face is so flushed and slick that just looking at him makes Eliot want to cream right then and there. His dick is like that, too, slapping down against his stomach, swollen and leaking. Eliot hefts up Quentin's legs, up over his shoulders, slides in hard. Quentin's hair is so close to Margo's pussy that he's pretty sure it's getting wet too which- should probably be gross, not hot, and yet-

He slams into Quentin again, jolting his whole body. Quentin's hands are- animated, grabbing against the sheets, then just pushing down on them, then flying up into the air at another deep thrust, like they're having a whole conversation on their own. His cock is so red and his balls are drawn up so tight; it has to hurt.

“You are the prettiest, sweetest boy in the world,” he tells Q. “Do you think you could say that back to me?”

Quentin's flush deepens, his mouth trembling. He mouths 'El' but no actual words make it out.

“I'll get you to say it one day,” Eliot says, content. “When you believe it.”

He fucks harder, hard as he can, Quentin's cock bouncing against his own stomach and leaving wet marks on his skin. Eliot could do this, maybe, for hours. Or maybe he just wants to, wants to spend all day in Quentin's ass. He presses a kiss against Q's calf.

“Beautiful, obedient Q,” he says, and it makes Quentin shiver and gasp. “I wanna see you come all over yourself. For me?”

And Quentin's hands... _twitch_ , hard, and, fuck, it's clear he wants so badly to touch his cock but he doesn't because Eliot told him not to and he's-

“Such a _good_ boy. I know you can do it without a hand on your dick,” Eliot coaxes. He slows his thrusts but makes them more precise. He almost loses track of himself enough to ask Quentin to 'come for daddy' but that won't- that doesn't work with Q, he needs something else. “You want to make me happy, don't you?”

“Yeah... wanna... El, I need to- I wanna...”

He's so close. Eliot can hear it in his voice.

“I'll touch your dick afterwards,” he promises. “When you're shivering from the aftershocks. I'll keep fucking you, while you're still so sensitive you-”

It's enough.

Quentin's body tightens around him like a vise, as his hands clench into fists and his body arches off the bed and his cock spurts and spits. As soon as it starts, Eliot gets a hand on him, angles it so that Q's come lands in wet lines across his stomach and chest.

“I knew you could do it,” he says, with a thrust that makes Quentin moan. He jerks Quentin's cock, gets him to squirm under Eliot's touch. “I'm so proud of you, baby Q.”

“I did good?” Quentin sounds hesitant, fucked out but still so needy.

“You were  _ perfect _ ,” Eliot tells him. Quentin's dick twitches in his hand even as it continues to soften. “You remember, right, what I said earlier about what I liked?”

“Um, you- you like it after. My dick- you like it after,” Quentin says, his face drawn together in concentration as his body continues to react wildly to every light touch and every gentle thrust. “Jesus, El, why does it feel so good? I can't- I can barely- barely  _ stand it _ , but it feels so-”

Eliot has some theories, but he just says, “Let me know if it goes from a good 'too much' to a bad one, okay, Q honey?” Quentin nods.

Fucking Quentin after he's already come is... tender and lovely. Quentin's body trembles around him but there's no force to it, and Eliot can glide in and out easily. He plays with Quentin's dick, squeezing out the last bits of come and spreading them around on the twitching head with his thumb. Quentin just pants harshly and shivers, hands flinching, almost dancing in the air.

Eliot leans down, captures Quentin's hands, asks, “How about you jerk yourself off while I fuck you?”

He releases his grip, moves his hands to Quentin's hips, leaves the final choice to Q.

Quentin hisses when he wraps his hand around his dick. He tugs at himself harder than Eliot had even thought of doing, his other hand curling in a fist on his hip. Eliot looks up, just so that he can exchange a heated, grateful glance with Margo, then focuses himself, speeding up, letting go of his control as he shoves in and out of Quentin.

_Fuck_ , Q is hot inside, silky and welcoming.

His hips stutter, and he buries himself inside Q deeply when he comes, closing his eyes as the giddy relief of it washes over him. He lets out a soft laugh, presses a kiss against Quentin's leg, smashing his nose because he hasn't opened his eyes yet. He holds himself inside as long as he can, until he has to – slowly, gently – pull out. He reaches down, presses his hand against Quentin's, feels Q's dick shudder and jump under their fingers.

Eliot thumbs at Quentin's hole with his other hand, where he's leaking out Eliot's come and it is- he moves down, noses against Quentin's balls, then licks at the trail of semen.

“Too much,” Quentin says, his voice frail and almost breathless.

Eliot stops. Sits back up again, between Quentin's legs.

Quentin is such a fucking _wreck_.

“You're so pretty,” Eliot says, and he pets desperately at Quentin's waist, wanting to be hard again so that he can fuck Q just like this, all filthy and wrung-out. Quentin is still resting one of his hands over his dick, but isn't moving it anymore. “I liked your scene, baby Q. You did a good job.”

“Even with my big fuck-up?” Quentin asks, but he smiles when he says it.

“Anything we grow from isn't a fuck-up, it's part of the journey,” Eliot says. “We learned something important about you tonight, Q, and that's worth a lot for the future. Our future.”

“Oh, El, that's... if I die tonight, it'll be from fucking sugar shock.” Margo strokes at Quentin's hair, and Eliot loves to watch how her fingers are so so tender and delicate with him. “Put that on my tombstone, okay? Her boyfriends were such soft touches that she _literally died_ from an overdose of sappy harlequin bullshit.” Then, after a pause, she adds, “I liked it too, Q. We can play pet first-year again any time you want.”

“Thank you, Margo,” Quentin says, in a tiny mouse whisper of a voice. Quentin is incredibly vulnerable about compliments after he comes, even more when they've push hard on his sub tendencies.

“Yeah, well, I can't let my sweet little pear blossom think that I don't approve of his ideas,” Margo says, because she can never just let a moment exist, and Q snorts.

“ _Pear blossom_ ,” he mutters. “Scraping the bottom of the barrel there.”

“Pfft, I got plenty more,” Margo says grandly. “Darling, dearest piglet. Precious daffodil. My shy but lovely wide-eyed fawn.” Quentin is laughing by the time she's done, hand lifting up to cover his mouth.

And Eliot... Eliot is more than ready to get out of his sweaty, rumpled clothes. He takes off the tie, first, which draws Quentin's attention back to him. He tosses it away, holds Q's gaze as he slowly undoes each button of his vest.

He strips off slowly, reveling in Quentin's undivided focus and, when he's naked, he stretches out on the bed next to Q, and pats Margo on the knee. “Wanna give us a show, Bambi?”

“Wouldn't last as long as yours,” she says, amused. “How about I go get us all some water and maybe some snacks instead.”

She rises from the bed, yanks her dress down so that she's decent – unless someone looks too closely at the wet shine between her legs or realizes what that mussed-up hair means or leans near enough to smell that just-fucked scent she's exuding from every pore – and pads out of the room, closing the door behind herself with a gentle click.

Eliot yanks Quentin half onto his body, wanting the skin-to-skin contact.

“You wanna debrief tonight or you wanna rest? You went through a hell of an emotional wringer.” He nuzzles against Quentin's hair, which definitely does smell like Margo, but he's kinda okay with it. He feels – and he really will talk about this tomorrow with Margo and Quentin – he feels like he beat back some bad memories of his own tonight, though it'll take him a while to put into words why he feels that way.

“I wanna...” Quentin trails off, sounding sleepy. Makes a quiet thoughtful hmm-ing sound. “Are you really okay with- you weren't just saying that 'cause Margo was here?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Eliot says, his heart aching. “Yeah. I was sincerely, genuinely okay with it. I'm really fucking queer and mostly into guys, sure, but girls can be nice on a rare occasion, like...” He gropes for an accurate comparison. “...like how I feel about Thai food. It's a treat when I'm in the mood. I just don't want it most of the time.”

Quentin relaxes in his arms, going almost boneless, that last little bit of tension releasing.

“Okay,” he says, on an exhale. “That's good, then.”

And he falls asleep.

Eliot laughs, and kisses him on the temple, and waits for Margo.

She returns only a few minutes later, raises her eyebrow when she sees Quentin draped over Eliot and snoring. “I leave you alone for five minutes and you bore him so much he drifts off?” She uncaps one of the bottles of water she brought up and hands it over to Eliot, sits next to him cross-legged and rests a hand on Quentin's bare hip.

“So, scale of one to infinity, how much you wanna to punch Fogg?” she asks, rubbing gentle circles into Q's skin. “I'm kinda at infinity plus one.”

“Sounds good to me,” Eliot says. He downs about half the bottle in one long swallow. “Ugh. All this time. All this goddamn time, Q believed he wasn't allowed to fucking _medicate_ himself under threat of being kicked out. Jesus.”

“This place is poison,” Margo agrees. “Between Fogg pulling _this_ bullshit and that fucking douche Mayakovsky being allowed to stay on staff? Burn the entire motherfucking school to the ground and salt the goddamn worthless ashes.”

“Amen. Okay, so, tomorrow, we go talk to Henry. Get Q's meds. Maybe figure out how to get him a new prescription? I'm sure whatever he had before has lapsed.” Eliot fiddles with the water bottle. “Hey, Bambi, you wanna do a scene tomorrow night?”

She stares at him a moment, nose wrinkled up in confusion, then her expression clears. “Oh, _that_ kind. You need it?”

“It might help,” Eliot says. He wants to hold onto his anger until they've talked to Henry but, afterwards, it might be good to purge it. “Maybe Q can go catch up with his little hedge friend.”

“Ooo, _meow_ , the claws come out when our Q isn't listening,” Margo says, with a smirk, and he _had_ sounded dismissive, hadn't he?

Then she sighs.

“Hey, El, do you think we're, like, possessive dicks?” Her tone is off-hand, but she looks pensive. “Or maybe- um. I am? Like, should I work on being the hedge bitch's friend?”

“I mean, it probably won't go too well if you call her a hedge bitch to her face,” Eliot says. “But, yeah. It would probably make Quentin happy if we tried to make nice with Julia.”

“Ugh,” Margo grunts, pained. Eliot kinda feels the same but- well. He doesn't want to be a possessive dick, either. When Quentin talks about his childhood friendship with Julia, he _glows_. That's worth protecting. And she's not the worst person in the world or anything, probably.

“I know, my darling. It'll be a trial,” he tells her, leaning over to brush a kiss against her shoulder. “But I'm pretty sure making sacrifices is part of being in a relationship.”

“Jesus, El, you don't have to come for my throat like that,” she says. “Anyway, dickhead, am I gonna have to clean Q up all by myself or will you get up off your ass and help?”

So he gets off his ass and they take care of Quentin, together.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want or need to skip Quentin's panic attack and the ensuing conversation about his mental health, it starts after "in context of this relationship they have with Q" and ends before "Normally, that's a private thing".
> 
> Margo and Eliot's feelings about Julia do not reflect my own.


End file.
